


Here Between Two Worlds

by narrowmargins



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Kissing, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 02:03:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14439108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narrowmargins/pseuds/narrowmargins
Summary: Eliot can’t sleep, so he joins Quentin in bed.





	Here Between Two Worlds

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve never written anything for this fandom before, so I’m a little nervous about sharing this! There is virtually no plot on offer here—it’s just an outpouring of smut, and a way of discharging some of the sentimentality that has stuck with me since I saw _A Life in the Day_. This is set sometime shortly after.

“Quentin?” Eliot whispers.

Quentin jolts out of sleep, clumsily lurching upright. “What, I—oh, is everything okay?” 

“Everything is fine,” Eliot says as he sits down on the side of the mattress, his outline hazy and indistinct in the dullness of the room.

Still groggy, Quentin slumps back down. “Huh?” he mumbles.

“Well, we’re still in deep shit, obviously, but it’s no worse than it was when you went to bed.” 

Eliot puts a hand on Quentin’s leg, his touch hot even through the blanket. Quentin swallows hard, his body automatically responding to a flood of memories that don’t belong to this life.

“I can’t sleep,” Eliot says, his tone uncharacteristically cautious. “Can I…”

“Yes,” Quentin says immediately, lifting the covers and wriggling over to make more space. “Yeah, of course.”

“Thanks,” Eliot sighs. He flops onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

Quentin rolls onto his left side to study Eliot’s expression. There’s a hint of a smile tugging at the edges of his lips, a faraway look in his eyes. 

“I remember this,” Eliot says. “From before.”

“Me too.”

“It used to help. When we were sad, discouraged, fucking sick of it all—even fucking sick of each other. I’d lie down next to you, and somehow it always made things feel… simpler, at least for a while.”

Quentin reaches out, tentatively draping an arm across Eliot’s waist, hand resting on his hip. “Um, is this okay?”

Eliot shifts, turning to face him. They pause, silence stretching out for long seconds as they look at each other. Quentin is acutely, painfully aware of their every movement—of Eliot’s warmth and solidity, of the subtle hitch in his breathing, of his own heartbeat hammering in his chest.

An irresistible impulse seizes Quentin. “Hey, do you know what else used to help?” he asks, and he doesn’t wait for a reply before closing the gap between them. The kiss is gentle and soft, more of a question than a statement—something hovering right at the limit of what an uncomplicated friendship would permit.

Eliot leans into it without hesitation, parting his lips. Their mouths slot together instinctively, a smooth slide that feels both electrifying and comforting at once. Eliot curls his fingers into the hair at the nape of Quentin’s neck as their tongues meet, humming in pleasure and what sounds to Quentin like a kind of relief. He feels it too. There’s lust, yes, a jolt of arousal that thrums through him and quickly sends his blood rushing south, but there’s also a powerful sense of freedom, like he’s exhaling after holding his breath for too long.

He rolls Eliot onto his back, straddling him, their kiss turning rough and hungry. Quentin mouths his way down Eliot’s neck with licks and bites, barely resisting the urge to leave a mark. He presses his nose into the soft curve beneath Eliot’s ear for a moment instead, inhaling the familiar scent of him. 

When they break apart for air, Eliot stares up with a heavy-lidded half-smile. He circles his hips, letting Quentin feel the hot, hard press of his cock through his pajamas.

Quentin’s brain short-circuits. “God, I want you,” he blurts out, dizzy with desire.

There’s a wicked, challenging glint in Eliot’s eyes as he reaches up to rub his thumb over Quentin’s bottom lip. “How do you want me?”

Quentin makes a frustrated noise and kisses him again, paralyzed by his options. He helplessly grinds against the pressure of a firm thigh pushing up between his legs, the friction delicious and agonizing at the same time. The truth is, he wants too many things at once. He wants to get down on his knees and suck Eliot off, wants to ride him slow and deep, wants them to just shove their clothes out of the way and come all over each other’s fists.

“If it’s all the same to you, I think you should fuck me,” Eliot murmurs. He slips a hand between them and traces the outline of Quentin’s dick with his index finger, teasing him through the thin cotton.

Quentin’s breath catches in his throat. He needs to know this is real. “Are you sure? I mean, I want to, clearly, but how do you know it’s not just—”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Eliot replies with an unsteady little sound that’s not quite a laugh, and then they’re yanking at clothes and shucking off underwear, undressing until there’s nothing but the heat of naked skin. Eliot deftly flips their positions and slithers down Quentin’s torso, nuzzling at his inner thigh. He takes Quentin’s cock into his mouth with a satisfied groan, cheeks hollowing as he sucks. His tongue intermittently swirls around the head, and Quentin has to look away to stop himself from losing control and finishing down Eliot’s throat.

“Ah, careful,” he huffs, a hand on Eliot's jaw to still his movements. “Holy shit.”

Eliot lifts his head and grins, lips glistening. “Yeah, I know,” he says.

Quentin rolls his eyes. “Just get on your back.”

“You old romantic.”

He fumbles at his bedside for condoms and lubricant, pouring some out. His fingers know exactly how to do this, how to work Eliot open at the right pace, how to tell when it’s time to stop. Quentin knows these things with as much certainty as he knows anything about himself.

Something in his chest clicks into place when he’s finally buried inside Eliot. It’s overwhelming, better even than the fantasies Quentin tries to pretend he doesn’t still have. “You feel so good,” he gasps at the end of a long, slow thrust, part of him wanting to make this last forever as he kneels on the bed with his hands spreading Eliot’s thighs.

Eliot’s cock curves swollen and flushed against his abdomen, and he looks gorgeously drunk with lust. “Harder,” he pleads, fingers digging into Quentin’s hips. Painfully aroused, Quentin drives into him deep and fast, listening to the lewd sound of their skin slapping together and losing himself in sensation.

He is dimly aware that he’s saying _yes_ and _fuck_ and _oh god_ over and over again, and he would surely be embarrassed were it not for the way Eliot is panting out shivery, shaky breaths with every thrust, his mouth open and his head thrown back against the pillow, dark curls sticking to sweaty skin. This can’t last much longer, both of them balanced on the edge of orgasm.

Quentin wraps a fist around Eliot’s cock and they kiss, the movements of their mouths sloppy and desperate. Eliot comes after just a few quick strokes, spilling hot and slick over Quentin’s hand and onto their chests, limbs trembling and body clenching tight. Pleasure slams through Quentin and his eyes squeeze shut as he shudders through his own release with a low, throaty moan. For a moment, his mind is empty and he feels nothing but bliss.

They rest, just the two of them in sticky, sated silence. It’s strange to think that this is something they’ve done hundreds of times and yet never done at all. Quentin’s mind drowsily spirals into memories of tenderness and belonging, of a life both frustrating and flawless in its simplicity, and of the fierce, sweet ache that grew and bloomed inside him as the years passed. He doesn’t remember everything, but he remembers enough—the noise of the mosaic tiles kicked over by his belligerent feet, the sunshine of his wife’s smile, a tiny boy’s fingers clutching his own, and _Eliot_. His musical laughter, the lines deepening on his face, the comfort of their bodies curled together at night.

Tears sting Quentin’s eyes. He blinks them away, nostalgia and gratitude twisting in his gut. “What we had,” he says. “It was beautiful. It really was.”

“It still is,” Eliot replies, wrapping his arms around Quentin and pulling him closer.


End file.
